


the currency of life is time

by caesarions



Series: tantae molis erat! [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ancient Egypt, Ancient Greece, Ancient History, Ancient Rome, Childhood Sweethearts, Drunken Shenanigans, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-19 13:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14874521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesarions/pseuds/caesarions
Summary: Somewhere between 540 and 535 BC, the Battle of Alalia occurs off the coast of modern Corsica. The Carthaginians and Etruscans have been conspiring for years to protect their interests, becoming closer than the rest of the Mediterranean could ever believe—in more ways than one. The Phocaean Greeks, kicked out of their previous home by the Persians, now face the same fate at the hand of this new alliance.A simple battle. The Greeks lose two-thirds of their ships in a naval skirmish and evacuate Corsica. A simple outcome. Etruria gains Corsica and Carthage maintains its hold on Sardinia.Then what, exactly, has turned the Mediterranean on its head?





	1. old money

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: this piece is a reflection on the battle of alalia in three parts with three different point of views. egypt, greece, rome, and persia are the canon characters that you know and love, just with human names selected by me. you could insert your own headcanon names, too. carthage and etruria are my own aph ancients ocs, and i wanted to do this project so i could introduce more people to them! if you want more information on my ocs' background before reading this fic, then just visit my website at https://anysusandaranth.weebly.com/. 
> 
> NAMES:
> 
> ancient egypt - sekhet (one who is powerful)
> 
> ancient greece - helen (shining bright) 
> 
> carthage - anysus barca (lost to history, lightning)
> 
> etruria - aranth repesuna (prince, lost to history)
> 
> rome - lucius marius priscus romulus (shining; of mars or masculine; ancient; the mythical founder, 'mr. rome')
> 
> persia - ardashir (one whose reign is based on honesty and justice)

**537 BC, Naucratis, Lower Egypt**

* * *

“I, bested by a child?”

Helen heaved and huffed, stomping up her Egyptian contemporary’s ramp to the front door. The white limestone, meant to reflect the scorching desert sun, momentarily blinded her with a magic sparkle. She stumbled back, making Helen’s blood boil. Her voice was booming shrilly, boosted with the dissociation of self-image and reality. “I cannot believe it.”

“I invited you here to relax, so take off your travel clothing and get to it,” Sekhet soothed the other woman with an outstretched palm. Tranquility was a trait she believed the Greeks lacked, especially the Athenians, hurried to death by their politics and uninterested in human contact. “My home is the last place you should be thinking of your grievances, or else, I am a poor host and poorer friend.”

On her extended hand, one of Sekhet’s gold bands caught the torchlight, and Helen was yoked by the brilliant flash into the entrance hall. Passing the threshold, she raised her chin.

“I apologize, Sekhet,” she mumbled perfunctorily. After unwrapping her _epiblema_ from herself, she handed the long shawl to a waiting slave. She had no other luggage, as she had made a quick escape from the Phocaean colony.

During a few heartbeats of silence, she shook out her front curls, the only sound the tinkling of her hair jewelry.

“But—”

“Sweet Helen, your emotion is clouding your judgment again,” Sekhet sighed like a silver wind before Helen could even begin. “In another time, in another place, you would be the first to philosophize and remind us that children can teach us anything.”

Helen crossed her arms, declaring, “Not this one.” Her tone held the dedication of a decision made weeks earlier, before Sekhet could ever reach her. Sekhet challenged the hard moss of the Greek woman’s flinted eyes.

“Let us go further inside. It is the dusty season,” Sekhet chided, trying to wrangle the fiery woman in, both mentally and physically. She grabbed the other’s wrist with grace and led her down the sandstone halls, flowing much like the water outside. Sekhet preferred retreating to her riverside villas when she had visitors—though the Saite Dynasty was quite easy to live with, sometimes they questioned how close her personal relations were.

For this most esteemed visitor in particular, Sekhet had a small residence built in Naucratis, the only Greek colony in the Nile Delta. A simple trading port to everyone else, it was a symbol of cooperation for the two women alone—a center for their shenanigans, if you would.

To be cowed by anyone but Sekhet would be unbelievable, and Helen knew it and stewed on her anger. Despite her rage, she let herself be led by the Egyptian. The layout of Sekhet’s Naucratis residence was imprinted upon on her mind, so she could bet her life on when the central courtyard would come into view. She would even bet her afterlife on the fact that Sekhet would use the calming space as leverage to get Helen to find her center again.

Hidden by pastel dyed walls and deathless greenery, it was the women’s favorite place to lounge. A slave had brought two low reed stools so they could sit and watch the rainbow of fish in the central pond. Helen planted herself on one unceremoniously, almost toppling over in the process. Grumbling in anger, Helen kicked off her sandals and shoved her feet in the water. Despite the humiliating stalemate the water had just handed her in battle, it was still the Greeks’ lifeline, and it had gotten her here to her lifelong companion.

Sekhet giggled at the display. But Helen thought it at her own expense, so she turned on the other with flushing cheeks. She demanded, “What is it?”

“I have seen many young ones in my lifetime,” Sekhet explained herself. “Do not make me say you are one again.”

“Me?” Helen huffed, splashing the other by removing her feet from the water with inhuman force. “If anything, I am acting such because the childish Anysus does not realize when he should cut his losses. Our kind should still care about human casualties despite our own taste of ambrosia.”

“To even refer to him as a child is to judge him against his ancestors instead of his own merit. I thought only Romulus’ patricians were still of that mindset,” Sekhet shrugged, somehow elegantly, clicking her tongue. “Anysus is a man grown. I am sure that if you knew him when he was actually young, you would feel differently about his mindset.”

“I know he was your ward at one point, and I know that blinds you,” Helen said, rising to pace around the waterfront. “I do not blame you for any of his bad qualities. It is under his other babysitter with Etruscan influence that Carthage strayed from the path of the gods. Aranth is even who he allied with against me!”

“I know how it went,” Sekhet said quickly; scribes were already passing the story around like a freshly served dish. But Helen was already on another tangent, ranting in sentences broken by sentiment, balling her fists as she went.

“Absolute debauchery— they do not even have to choose a father— can’t write proper Attic—!”

If Helen was going to blow off steam, this had to unfold. While she waited, Sekhet mused on how it was hard enough to steer Helen in a less severe direction, much less change her opinion entirely. The Etruscans were a strange bunch, but Aranth only meant well. They loved parties because they loved life, and they were devoutly religious, a intrinsic superstition that passed onto Anysus.

“And the Carthaginians— not off the hook— overstepping their boundaries— overpricing their bruised pomegranates!”

Even further, Carthage and Etruria were among the most liberal of areas in the Mediterranean. If Helen had adopted a backwards opinion like that of her worst male citizens, Sekhet knew that it was simply because she was jealous. And Sekhet understood that.

She wanted Helen to experience the best of freedom, too.

When all was quiet, Sekhet cleared her throat. “Yes, Anysus and Aranth are extremely close. The former explained their relationship to me on one visit here… I cannot say I understand it, but I am glad they are happy together.” She began to chuckle at her own upcoming joke, struggling to get through it. “I think being whipped by a lover is a learning experience. Men deserved to be roped in.”

Ignoring the humor, Helen howled acerbically and turned her back to Sekhet, her curls like a whip. “Still, why must their happiness encroach on mine? They should keep it to themselves.”

Shaking her head, Sekhet ran her fingers through her wig. “You never take losses this personally because you have so many people groups. You did not even feel connected to the Ionian Greeks’ first plight, the Phocaeans being one of the groups affected by the Persians, if I recall. Is that not why they all moved to their colonies like Alalia? Why aggravate over 40 lost war ships and a stalemate, then?” she asked softly but emphatically.

“Why party wildly over destroying 40 penteconters and a stalemate?” Helen exploded. “It goes both ways. They have nothing to do and have experienced nothing bigger. But I didn’t even want Corsica, anyway!”

Sekhet raised her eyebrows in a rare sign of disappointment. It chilled Helen to the bone, and she stilled.

“Again, mass migration due to an encroaching enemy seems like a bigger deal. Yet here you are, picking your battles.” Speaking slowly with calculated coolness, Sekhet demanded a true answer. “Why is Alalia so important?”

“It’s not,” Helen admitted quietly in a rare moment of clarity. She glanced over her shoulder mournfully, brows knit in concentration. “I am exaggerating.”

“I knew that much,” Sekhet laughed, sweet like honey. Rising from her stool, she stepped to Helen’s side and wrapped one arm about her shoulder, leaning forward until their breaths mingled, and both of their white tunics just barely danced across the water’s surface. “What is this really about, then?”

“Let’s lie down,” Helen whispered. When her eyes turned on Sekhet again, they were as soft as newborn grass bathed in dew. “Please.”

Nodding, Sekhet led her back to reed mat under the sunroof that the Egyptian used to relax and sunbathe. Having slowly withered under her cloak, Helen’s shoulders drooped, and her chiton hung off of her in one unflattering square of wool. Outsiders always found it was too hot for their clothes in Sekhet’s home, anyway. She would get Helen out of it.

After sitting carefully on her haunches, Helen did not follow suit; she practically flopped down on the reed mat, her head rolling to the side as if a doll. Her cheek crossed the sand border to press against Sekhet’s shoulder, and Sekhet patted it rhythmically. “Now, tell me what truly ails you. What is on your mind?” Sekhet asked once the two of them were pressed together, a light tan against rich chestnut.

“Are we too old?”

The Egyptian widened her eyes. “Have you been having more back pain lately?”

Helen rested on her chin instead of her cheek so she could stick her tongue out. Everyone forgot about the Egyptians’ sense of humor, but Helen found the moment of levity made it easier to unload her heart. “If I was, I would have asked you to walk on my back,” Helen chuckled herself. “But… Alalia. It’s symbolic. Did raising Anysus make you feel old?”

Sekhet stared at the blazing blue sky as she thought back. Her eyes clouded over as she became lost in the sea of memory.

Though Helen would never openly agree, it was beneficial that Anysus was a ward of both the Etruscans and Egyptians. Perhaps his father had little time for him, but Aranth and Sekhet filled in the gaps. If Anysus was raised in Tyre, he would have been constantly reminded of his colonial status, discouraging him from raising his status. He also would have been secluded and pulled into his shell even more than Anysus did now, believe it or not. After facing the social monstrosity of an Etruscan party, one could do absolutely anything in public, including running naked into a government forum.

...Not that Anysus had ever done that.

“You are floating off again,” Helen politely interrupted the other’s reverie. She pinched Sekhet’s cheek with pure affection.

“My apologies,” Sekhet hummed, grabbing Helen’s wrist so she could slide up and intertwine their fingers. “I think that was the wrong question. As fresh-faced and innocent as he was, that is not what made me feel old.”

Helen looked at her strangely.

“I did not feel old. I felt… strange.” Sekhet returned her intense gaze. “He is not young anymore. He is only young to us. He grew up so quickly, quicker than we ever could have dreamed.”

The Greek woman sat up with renewed discomfort. Tucking stray curls behind her ears, she casted her eyes to the ground. “Humans grow up in a minuscule fraction of our lifetimes. How does that make it any different?”

“In trying to avoid the answer, you just answered your own question,” Sekhet said kindly. “This is not supposed to happen to nations. At least, it did not happen to us.”

Helen stared up through the prison of her lashes. “I was still a girl when you became a young adult. You were still doing my makeup and holding my hand in the marketplace. I should not be the one complaining about this subject, should I? I have not the right.”

“I would never say that,” Sekhet grinned. “You know you can say anything you desire in my presence. But that was… a thousand years ago. Perhaps more; I have lost all track of time. Menes, uniter of Upper and Lower Egypt, is becoming quite the popular figure these days. Mortals will ask me if he was real, if I met him, and I don’t know.” They paused to listen to a particularly loud flood of Nile water outside. “I do not know if he was real or a myth. Likely, he is both.”

“Likely, we all are,” Helen nodded in consolidation, personally named after her own mythical founder, a male demigod she could claim no memory of. She sighed with the weight of the world and continued with beleaguered effort, “Anysus was a fully fledged teenager after only 200 years,” Helen mumbled. “That is insane; that is unhealthy. I was a still a baby when… well, I don’t know. I cannot think of an example.”

They both sat in silence with the gravity of the truth.

After a pregnant moment, Helen, ever the philosopher, whispered, “What does it mean? How much has the world changed?”

“I wish I could tell you.” Sekhet scrunched up her face from the pain of sincerity and rolled around on her back. “The world seems to move a little faster these days.” In any other company than Greek, she would have made a joke about Ardashir and his mail routes. It was the poor Persian’s only true love. “The important question is, are we too ancient to change with it?”

Even for immortal representatives, some considered to be gods by their humans, the thought was too much to bear. The unconscious conclusion drawn was, if the nation ceased to adapt, the nation died.

“Perhaps it is just our kind that has changed,” Helen offered in amelioration—or so she thought. As soon as the words escaped her, panic at the unchangeable gnawed at the back of her mind. “But then, did we grow up the right or wrong way? Better or worse than these young upstarts?”

“There are multiple categories in that question, both filled with curses and gifts.” While humming, Sekhet tapped her lips with a slender finger. “Like wine, I think relationships mature with time. Before my current ruler, Amasis II, designated this as the Greek city, we both remember the Greeks at Daphnae. The Ionian pirates helped put Psammetichus I back in power and were rewarded handsomely with their own land. It happened slowly, organically, and numerous moments of cooperation between our peoples make us extremely amiable.”

“That was a hundred years or so ago, so I remember that much.” The other woman gave a coy smile that lifted her flushing cheeks. “But he contacted an oracle to decide, and it is our peoples. So how much agency do we have over that decision? Over how we age?”

“Oh, I curse your mortals for their endless meandering,” Sekhet laughed like the tinkling of a graceful bell. They had been talking in circles for too long now, and it was making her eyes droop.

And, she felt a certain sense of dread to know the answer.

She continued, “It has rubbed off on you! If I am to be a gracious host, you are to relax properly.”

After that, Helen let herself be pulled down by Sekhet onto the same mat. Being the (much, much) shorter of the two, when she lied down, she could use Sekhet’s soft breast as a pillow.

“Alright, I am relaxed now,” Helen sighed through pursed lips.

“But really, what do you think? I don’t think these young ones have been through enough. They get caught up in childish things, like the pleasures of life for Aranth. And Anysus…” She thought of his numerous pets and incessant crying when she visited while Sekhet was babysitting. “He’s just a little sensitive.”

“I think children and seniors are equally as close to the secrets of the Earth,” Sekhet hummed, quite wisely herself. “And I think that if Aranth did not drag Anysus to Etruscan parties, he would be quite the square.”

Helen grinned with Greek audacity. “I think that, though we are senior citizens, we look quite good for our age. Or you do, at the very least.”

The two intertwined women giggled cosmetically, as if to cover something up, as a chilling breeze expanded into the courtyard.

The unknown breeze sprung from a dark cloud hanging over them. There was one young nation they knowingly left out of the conversation.


	2. new money

**537 BC, Alalia, Corsica**

* * *

“This feels like the very first victory of my life.”

Anysus glanced longingly across the balcony at Aranth. “You are older than me. I should be the one saying that.”

“By a century. Weird how that’s a long time to us, but Helen thinks we’re the same age,” the Etruscan mused. He wrapped his arms around his taller significant other. “But I don’t revel in my victories against other Italians! They’re all family to me, so I try to think of them as squabbles born out of love. You were there, which makes it extra special, _Karthasiu_.”

“Oh, you are right about that,” Anysus chuckled, but his honey brown eyes were staring blankly into the sea. The Etruscan pet name from his childhood threw him into a dissociative state. Depending on the day, a century seemed like an eternity or instant to Anysus, as he himself felt like a blip in the timeline. Alalia might as well have been his very first victory, even though Carthage had already won hardfought colonies, following his forefathers and surpassing his contemporaries. But as a colony himself, no one thought it would ever happen. Least of all Anysus himself, a mere child at the time, hiding under tables at the meetings because he was too shy to come out.

He had been too young to make sense of his successes, and even now, he felt no sense of pride. A bit confused, a bit happy for Aranth.

Suddenly, a slender waving hand blocked his vision. “Hello? Have the gods given us a vision?”

“Sor— sorry,” Anysus blinked in surprise, lashes brushing his cheeks. He forgot he could still be seen when he swam deep in his thoughts. To stop it from happening again, he needed to change the topic of conversation. “Uh, what are you going to do with your new island paradise?”

The weather was an anomaly; though the sea breeze fled fast and steady, Anysus did not have to talk over it. Instead, it ran its salty fingers through their hair, though Anysus was glad his cropped black hair couldn’t get in his eyes, and magnified his speech.

If only it had helped him so at the battle. Instead, they were trying to yell at ants in the distance on their toy ships leagues away. The lack of communication was the one downside of Anysus’ beloved naval battles.

“I don’t really know,” Aranth admitted, leaning his elbow on the marble balustrade. He and Anysus sought privacy in the mansion of the previous tyrant—who had also fled—that Aranth had then been gifted by his own government. The most secluded spot of all was this balcony off of the master bedroom. Linen curtains separated the pair from the rest of the world.

“Could you not have asked for another residence?” Anysus mused. He made distracted conversation as he watched the wind work Aranth’s chestnut curls, floating to frame his face, surrounded by a halo of light. Anysus gave a rare smile. “Politicians do not know how to decorate.”

“That’s why I like this one!” Aranth giggled, sticking his tongue out, hazel eyes glittering with benevolent mischief. “I can add to it. Actually, I wish to add to the entire island. I feel like the Greeks only detracted. You know, since they always hounded the locals for honey and slaves and whatnot.”

The Carthaginian grimaced. “Yes. Perhaps you could make your own cities.” Anysus could see himself visiting Corsica a lot if Aranth de-Greeked it. Their respective capital cities were only a straight shot away—Carthage to the south, Veii across the Tyrrhenian Sea. If the open ocean was Anysus’ second home, then the richest city in the Etruscan League was his third. Aranth had babysat young Anysus in his palace in Veii.

“Yes!” Aranth clapped his hands together. “Oh, it’ll be wonderful. I always felt bad for visiting your villa in Cagliari just a little too much. Now we can have another tropical escape!”

The Phoenician-turned-Punic town in Sardinia was not optimal for Anysus' villa, but it was the only option. Since it was heavily fortified, Anysus and Aranth could not escape into nature, walking and picnicking along the beach as they always desired to do together.

Anysus huffed, “Ba’al knows we need one with the kid taking my place in Veii. I told you to leave him along the Tiber.”

“Anysus!” That comment received a playful slap. “How would you feel if I had stopped raising you, maybe left you along the Gulf of Tunis instead?”

“Oh, you would never. It is not the same,” the Carthaginian insisted, humor tinged with malice. He crossed his bronze, statuesque arms. “I was a good child. I did not get into the banquet food before it was set out and bite the visitors.”

“Oh, Lucius isn’t… that bad.” Aranth opened his mouth to continue that train of thought. Deciding better, he cleared his throat, putting on a saccharine smile as if a theater mask. “Little brothers are just like that. Besides, we should be celebrating.”

Sighing heavily, Anysus planted his forearms on the solid marble to steady his center. “Celebrating what, exactly? It was not much for a victory.”

“I mean,” Aranth shrugged; ever an optimist, even he struggled to defend the outcome. “It was… something.”

“It was a fluke,” Anysus said—softly, not bluntly.

While the wind whipped up around them, the other argued, “Everything happens for a reason. We are just not experienced enough to understand. But since that knowledge comes from the gods, I doubt it comes with time. It comes with talent.” To boost his argument, Aranth added, "You know Tages, the prophet that revealed the art of haruspicy to us. He was but a child that sprang out of the dirt."

“A sentiment that seems to be lost on the older generation of nations.” But Anysus’ stomach immediately flooded with regret, remembering Sekhet was among that group, and how she had never given up on him. Flushing, he added, “...Perhaps not all of them.”

Aranth always grinned when Anysus attempted to break his negative habits. It was a lifelong project fulfilled. But their moods seemed to go up and down on a sacrificial seesaw, so Aranth postulated, “The Greeks abandoned Corsica before we even won the battle. They were still winning,” Aranth mumbled. “I mean, most of their ships were already gone. But I have a feeling they destroyed the rest of their own ships before younger or foreign hands could.”

The Etruscan and Carthaginian representative glanced at each other in ostracizing understanding.

“It was not a smart decision, but it was a Greek decision. Roman patricians,” Anysus huffed, “and Greek pride are the only two sins in this entire world.”

“I can agree with that.” Aranth kept his face still. “You know what else we can agree on?”

Anysus raised his brows. “What?”

“Going inside.” The idyllic island weather had soured around them. Anysus felt the humidity trying to sap the Tyrian purple from his robes, and Aranth’s disc earring was slapping him in the face. Anysus was suddenly glad he always opted for small, golden hoops. The wind had even pushed the linen curtains all the way back, exposing the lovers to the world again.

Anysus laughed, taking the Etruscan by the arm. Aranth added, “And partying.”

 

Though Anysus felt unsatisfied earlier in the week and just generally a stick in the mud, he was still reared by an Etruscan. Thus, he fell susceptible to Aranth dragging him to the party to celebrate their joint win, and Anysus invited his own people in turn. The Etruscans were more than happy to host the Carthaginian officers and foreign mercenaries, and everyone crowded together in the Greek tyrant’s mansion.

It turned out everything Greek historians said about Etruscan parties was true—without the dripping disdain, of course.

Even though it was early in the evening, there were nowhere near enough couches for everyone, so those who could not lounge, danced instead. Especially the mercenaries, who would all be unfamiliar with the setup of a Greek symposium. Why drink wine in such a formal way, and only three undiluted kraters of it? Humanity could handle so much more than the Greeks gave them credit for.

The musicians stood on a platform at the side of the dining hall, and their instruments included castanets and double aulos flutes. Aranth had forced Anysus to dance with him for a time to the jovial beat, and even Anysus was getting into it, swinging his hips and jumping around of the circle. But soon a _hetaira_ was inching too close to them, eyeing Anysus for his moves. He jumped behind Aranth and shuffled awkwardly away from her and the other prostitutes.

“You’re not a kid anymore,” Aranth laughed like a chorus of birds, grabbing Anysus’ arm affectionately and holding it close. “You’re allowed to talk to the _hetairai_.”

“I don’t want to,” Anysus mumbled, shaking his head a little sloppily from his first full drinking cup downed. “I wouldn’t even when I’m drunk. I don’t like… the concept.”

First, the women were leftover Greeks that had not the means to escape when the island changed hands. They were not present at the Etruscan parties of Anysus’ youth, and the Carthaginian, unknowingly, owed much of his personality to his juvenile lens. The Etruscans didn’t need to invite special prostitutes because their ladies were already invited to parties, so Anysus wanted the moral high ground, too.

But really, it was just because Anysus was afraid.

The Carthaginians and Etruscans preferred to stuff themselves first, and the pair of nations joined their people after his episode. Someone had embroidered a net of local flowers to be a live, emerald tablecloth; the rainbow of blossoms helped the polished silver wine cups shine like stars. Or, as a lightweight, maybe Anysus was already seeing double.

One of the flowers caught Anysus’ eye because of the vibrant purple. Aranth followed his eyes and snatched one up out of the net, immediately placing it behind Anysus’ ear. “Look! It matches your tunic, _Karthasiu_.” He even pinched Anysus’ cheek, causing the solemn Carthaginian to blush sanguine.

Another local Greek woman noticed the display. While Anysus did not hide this time, he grabbed Aranth’s arm, hard enough to leave dots of scared white on the other’s lightly tanned skin. But she meant well and only wanted to explain that this was the Corsican crocus. She knew that Cretan Greeks associated the spring blossom with Ariadne—or maybe Persephone—so they took on a meaning of youth and rebirth.

“Ariadne? You mean Areatha? No, she hangs out with Fufluns and Semla,” Aranth insisted, “at least, according to us.”

The poor _hetaira_ hadn’t asked for this. “Semle? You mean… Semele, surely?”

Anysus watched the entire exchange uncomfortably. He fingered the crocus behind his ear.

Finally, when she tired of the mythological discussion, it was time to eat. And just in time, as Anysus had been too excited to eat anything substantial for a few days. The table was piled high with boar stuffed with sheep’s cheese (as if the rounds of cheese wasn’t enough) and boiled tuna. Bread fresh from the reclaimed kitchens filled the dining hall with a homely scent, and finally, there were mixed olives, raisins, and nuts as a side dish.

And of course, the wine.

Late into the night, after eating themselves into a food coma, the pair cuddled on the same couch, trying not to upset their stomachs. At least Anysus wasn’t, but then Aranth elbowed him in the belly in excitement. “Anysus, they’re starting the game!”

The man grunted. Rubbing his temples, Anysus was unsure if he was tired, drunk, or both. When he blinked awake, Aranth was pointing to some slave boys setting up _kottabos_. The game was new to this century, so like talking to female prostitutes, Anysus lacked skill in it.

“Oh, would y’look at that,” he grumbled. Anysus looked in his wine cup, finding only the dregs left, what was needed to play. They were the worst part of the wine. Otherwise, why would the Mediterraneans throw them across the room for sport? Anysus downed the unsavory solid bits anyway. “And look at that. Can’t play. We’d have t’get on separate couches, anyway.”

But he was in luck. Aranth raised his hand, and another slave almost materialized by his side. “My friend here needs some more wine, please. And I’ll take some more just for moral support.”

Anysus tried giving Aranth a wounded look, but Aranth grabbed the bottom of his cup and tilted it up, forcing Anysus to drink in unison. It was a wonder Anysus finished his fourth cup without coughing, but his mood was really feeling it.

“I… love you.”

Most of the Carthaginian officers left the table, so finding another couch was no problem. Aranth now reclined on the opposite side of the room, and Anysus hoped nobody would talk to him.

Before they knew it, they were all screaming and tossing wine at the bronze stand in the front of the room. Anysus was in the back so no one could get a maroon stain on his clothing. That should have put him at a disadvantage, along with his sheer drunkness. He kept holding the cup sideways and spilling his ammo. But as a light drinker, Anysus had the most wine to begin with. Not to mention his upper body strength from lifting goods and crates. Like or unlike Alalia, he wasn’t sure, the odds were stacked in his favor.

Thus, no one else was surprised but Anysus when the top disc was knocked off and fell into the bottom disc on one of his wine tosses. A telltale chime of metal on metal rang out, confirming his conquest. Aranth was the loudest—and only—cheerer.

“You won!” Aranth yelled, jumping up and running across the banquet table in his haste. Anysus could never be drunk enough to forgot about Aranth’s safety, so he caught the smaller man in his arms. “Your first time!”

“We shoulda shared the win with someone else,” Anysus laughed, face burning hot. “We’re already successful in love.”

Winking, Aranth curled an arm to show his lithe muscles. “We might still need it! We’ve just started our career as a battle couple!”

Anysus kept laughing, but the rush of emotions made his head spin, along with the sudden transition from lying down to catching a human-sized target. He flopped back onto the couch, Aranth bouncing in his lap, and stuck his Semitic nose in the other’s curls.

Also transitioning from drunken revelry to worry, Aranth laced a hand into Anysus’ contrasting straight, raven black hair. “Are you alright, _Karthasiu_?”

“Just overwhelmed,” Anysus confirmed, his mouth twitching into a hidden grin. He also knew the others were staring at him for winning. “Can we escape into the night? Need some fresh air.”

“Of course, anything you want. The party will go on, with or without us.” Now nurturingly forceful, Aranth grabbed Anysus by the wrists and led the other on a jaunty walk outside the front door. The night carried on the legacy of the day’s humidity, so Anysus immediately felt wet and groggy. I should have changed into an old tunic, he thought.

That thought doubled as the lucid party melted away and the hot slopes began. Fumbling in the dark and unfamiliar with the land, in an ideal world, they would have known the vegetation of Corsica. The limestone inclines produced endless garrigue to trip them and crowd their sandals. After running into an entire prickly juniper tree, Aranth whimpered and made Anysus carry him. Though Anysus was also a victim, as he kept getting slapped by pine branches.

“I wanna give the island back,” Aranth whined in his arms. But it was premature, as when they finally hit sand, the vegetation on the dunes was much kinder. A waxing crescent moon hung above, so the silver outlines of short, seaside herbs shone between the sediment. Anysus imagined Aranth making some kind of health dish out of them, as the Etruscans always seemed to do.

“Let’s just sit,” Anysus whispered, afraid to disturb the wildlife. He had been slurring quite considerably at the party, but out here, surrounded by godliness, his head had to be cleared.

Together, they found a perfect, flat spot between the dunes and the tide. Aranth sat in Anysus’ lap just because he could.

But when he reached for Anysus’ hand to intertwine their fingers, the Carthaginian nation’s hand was stiff and cool. As a desert nation, Anysus held a naturally warm body temperature. This made Aranth’s feathery brows raise in concern. “Hey, are you feeling alright?” he breathed, touching a finger to Anysus’ lips.

It took a long time for Anysus to respond. “I feel just fine,” he said, gently grabbing Aranth’s wrist. “I am just… thinking.”

“Okay. Hit me,” Aranth challenged, scooting to face Anysus fully.

His dedication was admirable, at least. But Anysus made a face, deepening his frown lines. Aranth always told him they would wrinkle someday—but when? “Are you sure? I feel like I’d be ruining the vibe.”

Aranth tilted his head. “The victory celebration just happened, so we’ll have to return home soon. Be apart again. If philosophizing means being together a little longer, then it’s worth it.”

“Okay.” Anysus bit his cheek. Aranth would take him seriously when no one else would. “The… party bothered me a little. Nothing you did, don’t worry!” Anysus raised a hand before Aranth even gasped; Anysus knew what he would ask first, and the assurance stopped it. “The _hetairai_ , stupid as it is. The mythology and the _kottabos_. How much can you share culture before it becomes too much?”

This question had always bothered Anysus. He trusted Aranth with his entire heart. It wasn’t like they had adopted Greek xenophobic or misogynistic attitudes, and the exchange was never exact. They adapted a few Greek mythos for their own special worldview, and wrote some broken Attic on their vases. But the Greeks had gotten the alphabet from the Phoenicians, so that one was excusable, Anysus supposed.

“A bit more philosophical than I expected. You were busy during the party,” Aranth mumbled, pinching Anysus’ nose affectionately. “But I understand the question and the concern. I think I’ve achieved somewhat of a comfortable distance, since that woman scrunched up her face at my versions of Greek names like they were curses.”

“They tend to do that no matter what you are saying,” Anysus couldn’t help but joke. “But I know you have. I was thinking… of myself.”

The other pressed their foreheads together. “Aw, Anysus, what do you mean? Your people own such a beautiful culture, and so early into their development.”

“It might be,” Anysus said, half-agreeing, as he could never go against his own people. “But it might not be my own. Especially compared to the other colonies who were solely Phoenician-raised. We have so much Etruscan and Egyptian influence in our burials and religion. Punic has even been trying to adopt some Greek traits!” he harrumphed.

While laughing kindly at the last joke, Aranth’s hazel eyes drooped with sympathy. "Whether you mean to take it on or not, each trait you adopt becomes your own. Indicative of your culture. We made the symposium a bit more personal. The Greeks are afraid to share a couch because they're scared of human nature." It was not so much a joke as it was true. “I don’t know. Some still say we are who come before us.”

“Frankly, that is disquieting.” Anysus tugged on his tunic, beginning to feel the island heat. “I am quite fine with you and Sekhet, but I don’t want to model the homeland so much.”

“Then it’s up to you,” Aranth shrugged languidly, as if it was just that easy. Most people mistook his simplicity for stupidity. Despite knowing him so well, sometimes, Anysus still thought Aranth the innocent one; other times, Anysus realized his grave mistake and wished he could be just as elemental and free.

But, that development had not happened yet.

Anysus countered, tightening in anxiety, “Not as a child. There, it is the most true that your identity is outside of your hands.”

Aranth ran a comforting hand down Anysus’ spine, reminding him it remained unbent and unbroken. He decompressed just a little, not fully, under Aranth’s careful tending, and only Aranth’s. “Despite who’s looking after you, you shouldn’t wish away your youth. It’s a waste.”

“It would be,” Anysus huffed, “if I knew how to spend my youth in the first place.” What had he accomplished except for monuments that belonged to the adults of his people? What had he experienced except for the anxiety of a small child up against conditional love in a competitive merchant family?

“None of us do, not even the humans. That’s why we mess around instead.” The Etruscan halted for a moment to allow Anysus to soak up the philosophy and form his own thoughts. Since the island seemed to be strangely absent of the plague of mosquitoes, the only sound was their intimately intermingled breaths.

When Anysus lifted his chin in satisfaction, Aranth turned Anysus' face to the moon. “Speaking of?” he asked, watching the moonlight turn the Carthaginian’s camel lashes into webs lovingly bathed in dew.

Anysus was watching a similar sight of the moonlight catching the highs of Aranth’s cheeks, making him sparkle brighter than the wine cups. “Go back already? I was hurt more by the plantlife walking down than I was in the battle.” Finally, the wine was doing him some good; with liquid confidence, Anysus added, “We better do it in the water.”

Unbeknownst to the fleeing lovers, there were many ways to effectively spend a childhood. Modeled by their youngest neighbor, one such way was to revel in spite, to collect grudges, and to never forget a thing.


	3. young money

**537 BC, Veii, Lazio**

* * *

“I know it’s different, but I don’t want to go to the port. It’s time I stopped.”

The slave raised his eyebrows at the naked hostility. “Yes, young master. I just thought you’d want to know,” he mumbled—though not apologetically. Now, he had raced back to the palace for naught. “Aranth’s ship was spotted off the coast mere moments ago.”

“Then he’ll take a while to get here,” Romulus harrumphed, rawly fresh with the knowledge that Aranth was already a few days late. He settled back into his windowsill throne until the stones battled with his jutting shoulder blades. “Though, not as long as he took last time.”

“Good thinking, young master,” the slave muttered perfunctorily. Concluding with a bow, he added, “The banquet is at sundown.”

After a hasty escape by Aranth’s slave, Romulus was left alone in Aranth’s atrium. He curled into a ball on Aranth’s windowsill.

Despite being so close, perhaps a day from Rome, everything here still dripped with his older brother’s influence. The short distance was supposed to make the young boy more comfortable, but crossing the wooded border was like stepping into another world. It was especially evident when coming back after weeks in Rome, as Romulus had just done. As the carriage rolled on, he had stilled and ceased to talk as the leathery, hardworking farms of Rome relented to the glittering, emerald opulence of Etruria.

The only thing Romulus owned here was his body, and as an adolescent, even that did not obey him. All the Roman could do was hide his face between his perched legs. But Romulus’ nose was too big to hide, so instead of uncomfortably smushing it flat, Romulus accepted defeat and only hid his mouth and chin. Defeat came as a physical reminder of his awkward proportions. His traitorous proportions lead to a mental reminder of his in-between state. The aquiline shape and size were a gift of his people, integral to identifying them, but Romulus wasn’t quite sure how to utilize it yet.

Aranth always said he would grow into it.

Aranth never had this issue. Portraits of him littered the palace, popping up in the wall paintings, mosaics, and the Etruscans’ very own bucchero. Romulus saw entirely too much of the black pottery endemic to Etruria, but these days, production centers had moved much further north, away from the border.

Romulus had no idea what they were afraid of.

At least the portraits were not born from narcissism, for they were gifts throughout the ages. The nations were thought to be a god or something similarly supernatural, though some kept more offerings than others. Aranth was usually thought to be a son of Fufluns or Fufluns himself, a beardless youth that served as god of growth in all things—that, and drunken revelry. What better god for the representative to choose to immortalize his people?

Aranth explained to a even younger Romulus that the _flerchva_ actually made him quite uncomfortable, but he kept the offerings because his people meant well. In such a misty religion lacking a communication system, Aranth was happy to make them happy by being the only concrete mouthpiece, despite his shyness in the face of attention. Besides, the art was too pretty to waste, and one could never decorate enough.

It had been suggested that Romulus could be a _lar_ of the _Casa Romuli_. Aranth never wanted to be a household god, because he never wanted to favor a family, but Rome's first king was semi-mythological at this point and so belonged to no one. The nation’s memories of the historical Romulus were foggy, so he thought maybe taking up the position would grant him respect as a child representative and rectify his identity. And it did, in an unexpected way; he instead became _the_ Romulus, gifted the name by his people for being an immortal mascot. Not one they understood, but one they at least appreciated, Romulus hoped.

He almost liked the name more than the Etruscan-based one Aranth had bestowed upon him.

Anysus never had this issue, either. Perhaps it was an unfair comparison, but no one had ever accused Romulus of being rational. Anysus was born a century before Romulus, as Aranth was born a century before Anysus. They used to be close in human age, and Aranth would even babysit them both at the same time. The pair didn’t always play nicely, so Romulus was glad when Anysus stopped coming for a period of time when Carthage was too busy colonizing, and Anysus aged out of the need to be watched.

Little did Romulus know this expansion caused Anysus to shoot up like a weed. He even filled out, which now, Romulus worked for desperately. So once Anysus did return in all his handsome glory, Romulus supposed it was inevitable that Aranth would fall for him, fulfilling Anysus’ lifelong precocious crush on his Etruscan caretaker. It made Romulus volatile, but it also gave him hope for his own fascination with the Greek nation.

If Anysus had an awkward phase, Romulus had been barred from viewing it, just as he had been kept in the dark about the blossoming of their relationship.

Well, Anysus wasn’t here right now, and Romulus had thought himself into a tizzy for about an hour. An emotional force had Romulus sliding off of the windowsill to stand on the mosaic-tiled floor. Half of the force was motivating spite at his North African contemporary. The other half was immense guilt pressing onto his tiny heart. Aranth visited him at the city gates each time he drove up from Rome. Since he had visited Aranth at the port each time Aranth came home from afar, Aranth would think he was sick or injured.

Romulus shuffled his feet, trying to hide his toes in the holes of the mosaic. He gulped.

…Well, there was no harm in meeting Aranth halfway.

Before he could change his mind, Romulus broke into a full-on sprint. Short and skinny like a rat, he was accustomed to dodging under people’s legs to get somewhere or be able to watch a show. The household slaves turned it into a game, keeping count of the slides he could complete without touching the person’s legs. Visiting politicians and esteemed merchants did not enjoy it so much, but Romulus did not like them, either.

The main door was at the front of the atrium. Romulus stopped running at the rainwater pool so he could splash his burning cheeks. He found he had to do that quite often these days.

After telling the doorkeeper what he was up to, the nice old man let Romulus sneak outside. But as soon as the bronze doors clicked shut behind him, the finality made him shudder. Originally interpreting meeting Aranth at the palace gates as a good deed, he realized it could also be seen as a half-assed gesture created at the last minute.

Well, there was nothing he could do for that now.

Whistling to drown out his thoughts, Romulus hopped from boulder to boulder down the cliffside. All Etruscan had an _arx_ somewhere elevated for protection, and Veii’s citadel sat on a plateau. Included in the fortified center was Aranth’s palace, of course, whose gates ended halfway down the cliff, right before the most important shrines and military stores.

The coast lay nearby to the west, and the Tiber to the east. Romulus liked to be outside to hear the gentle wash of his home river, but sometimes, the Tyrrhenian Sea crashed too loud—another thing Aranth owned.

Once he reached the metal gate, Romulus looked up for the first time and realized how cloudy it was. Hopefully it didn’t rain, for there was nothing to do but wait and no trees around to do it under. Romulus kept balancing on logs and climbing up the bigger rocks. He even found a frog to do the jumping with him.

Romulus looked for Apollo’s bright sun to tell the time, but it was hidden by slate gray clouds strung along like dirty laundry. It took about another hour to see any signs of life. By that time, Romulus had cupped the frog in his hands after tuckering himself, just walking beside the defensive wall.

Then, came the whispering from afar. “It’s not like one didn't just happen in Alalia,” someone was saying, an unmistakable silvery voice, though drowned out by the wind. “But who am I to complain of another?”

Romulus began to run again, holding the frog above his head. Despite missing Romulus’ farming roots, Aranth loved animals as well, so he thought he could share. As the gate creaked open, Romulus ran back even faster.

There was no problem until Romulus returned to the path. It dipped in relation to the ground around it, worn down from years of use, and the edges were frayed. A pebble Romulus stepped on came loose from the dirt, and it was big enough that his whole left foot slipped.

Shrieking girlishly, Romulus ate dirt. As his elbows hit the caked earth, the frog jumped out of his hands. Romulus watched his new friend hop off into the distance with big, brown eyes until the sound of luggage hitting the ground interrupted his lamentations.

“Lauchasiu!” Romulus felt himself being swept up into the Etruscan’s arms like the tide. He received a flutter of friendly kisses on his forehead, but they weren’t from a mermaid. “Did we frighten you? Are you hurt?”

While whining like a puppy, Romulus squirmed and grabbed Aranth’s necklace. “Let go of me! I hate that nickname.”

“Why, Lucius? It’s just a diminutive.” Aranth licked his thumb, proceeding to wash the dirt off of the other’s cheeks. “You’re my little king. Although, right now, you’re a dirty king.”

Romulus knocked his brother’s hand away. “It’s not cool anymore.” Falling in front of Aranth’s travel entourage would not have been so embarrassing if Aranth had not treated him like a toddler. He was at least a preteen by now! And as such, he spit in his hands to clean his own cheeks, but the blood was already rising to his ears. Just when Romulus thought he was safe because of his hair—

“Oh, you got a haircut!” Aranth exclaimed. He went to tuck Romulus’ muddy brown curls behind his ears as the Etruscan always did, but then he found they were too short to do so. Some of them were too short to even curl anymore. Aranth pouted. “Did your host family in Rome cut it for you? I thought I did before I left.”

After tugging on Aranth’s necklace so many times, even Aranth, who wore an entire goldmine daily, got tired of the jangling. Romulus finally got released, but Aranth squatted to his level so the boy wouldn’t hurt himself again.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t short enough,” Romulus huffed. “That’s how we wear it now.”

“Oh.” Frowning, Aranth ran his fingers through the locks again. Being short also made it coarser, as if wool. Maybe Romulus had been hanging around too many sheep lately. “Well, I think that’s a bit boring, but… if it’s for you culture.”

“It is!” Romulus insisted. Crossing his arms, he turned his back on the Etruscan. He didn’t know what was worse—losing his balance or losing the frog. Now, he had nothing to show Aranth except a scrape on his leg.

His arms weren’t crossed tightly enough, so Romulus’ hands were exposed. Aranth grabbed his right hand to slowly unravel Romulus’ arms. Standing kindly over the younger brother, Aranth whispered, “I’ll put something on it when we get inside.”

They were out of earshot of Aranth’s entourage. Romulus sniffled. “Okay.”

For once, he let Aranth grab his hand. Someone else carried his luggage, as Aranth had a whole new kind of baggage now.

On the slow meander back up the hill, Romulus did not run around. He gripped Aranth’s hand tightly—but not too tightly. Without being too obvious, either, he looked back and forth for his lost friend.

“Alright,” Aranth sighed after the doorkeeper swung open the entrance. Romulus was temporarily blinded by a flash of bronze. “Can you take my things to my room? I’m going to take a bath before we head to the sanctuary.”

“Yes, master,” the two slaves who had accompanied Aranth to the battle said. Romulus also tried to disentangle his hand.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Aranth looked down; Romulus looked around the atrium before pointing at himself. “Yes, you,” Aranth chuckled, squatting to Romulus’ level. He talked quietly until the group around the door had disbanded. “I said I’d put something on your scrape.”

“Oh, right,” Romulus mumbled, his cheeks flushing. Now inside, he dropped Aranth’s hand; although, he did follow his brother to the palace’s bathhouse. Etruscan baths channeled thermal hot springs, which were probably more useful in the northern cities, as the Alps cast down gelid winds. Aranth, via the Greeks, insisted the scalding waters held healing properties.

The palace had one large pool for the inhabitants, and one small pool for the slaves. It was always empty at this early in the morning, for no one had gotten dirty enough yet, save for Aranth and Romulus, recently traveling. For this, Romulus was grateful. He had not wanted anyone seeing him mostly naked, and the injury was just the icing on the cake.

Aranth instructed kindly, “Sit on the bench before the cubbies.” Romulus did as he was told, but he had to jump up onto the tall, marble bench. It was a little damp from the constant steam in the room, also clouding Romulus’ vision even worse than the overcast sky outside. By now, his curls would have expanded to twice their size. Patting his new cut, nothing had happened yet. Maybe that was the one benefit of short hair.

Aranth wasn’t as lucky. While rooting around in the cubby holes to collect and the healing salves he needed, he kept blowing auburn curls out of his eyes. With a pang in his heart, Romulus stopped touching his hair, as it used to look so much like Aranth’s. Instead, he twiddled his thumbs and waited.

He still had the general vibe of Aranth. They shared the same skinny, athletic builds, big eyes, big noses. The only things Romulus lacked were the glittering, gemstone hues of the Etruscans. His hair was a dull bark brown, his eyes refused to reflect light, and his skin was dirty. 

Returning with an ominous bundle of medical tools, Romulus took one look and retreated into the wall. “It’s just a scrape, Aranth.”

It fell on deaf ears. Aranth looked at the injury from all angles and even knocked on Romulus’ knee to see his reaction time. Upon seeing the relative shallowness of the cut, the Etruscan nation sighed—out of relief or consternation, it was too soon to tell. “This time, you’re right.” He settled on cleaning the dirt out of the wound with vinegar. Afterwards, the scrape was concealed with a woolen wrap. Romulus could foresee often medical treatment in his future.

“Getting this wet will keep your wound soothed,” Aranth explained, “so let’s hop in the bath.”

Romulus didn’t need to be told twice. He threw off his shell of a tunic and ran across the uneven cobblestone floor. While jumping, Romulus curled himself into a ball and landed in the pool like a rock. A splash gave way that didn’t match his small stature.

In the middle of removing his jewelry, Aranth squealed, “Lucius! You’ll scrape your other leg!” When Romulus emerged from the water with a shit-eating grin, Aranth noticed his bare neck for the first time. He cleared his throat and attempted his best authoritative voice. “And you’re not supposed to take off your bulla, either!”

Romulus frowned while Aranth disentangled the amulet. “But it just protects young boys from evil spirits. I’m not a human boy, and if I was, is an evil spirit going to get me in the bath?”

The Etruscan finally tugged the bulla free and ambled to the poolside. “Yes,” Aranth answered soberly. Since he had removed his travel cloak, tunic, and jewelry down to the last earring, he finally entered the tepid bathwater. Aranth’s grave face finally broke into a toothy smile as he growled and pounced on Romulus. “And that spirit is me!”

“Hey!” Romulus yelled, but Aranth held Romulus against him and used the chance to tie the leather cord behind Romulus’ neck again. Romulus caught the metal amulet before it fell into the water. “But this is gold!”

He could see keeping it on his neck in a less savory Roman bath known for thievery, but this pool was private.

“Oh, we have more than enough of that to go around,” Aranth shrugged.

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Aranth sunk into the water up until his collarbones. Closing his eyes, Aranth leaned against the pool wall. Romulus couldn’t even touch the bottom yet.

He kept looking at the bulla in his hands. Maybe Aranth did, but so far, he… Romulus eventually let go of the bulla; its splash in the water physically hurt him. He reconsidered and kept the bulla covered in his hands under the water.

After another moment of awkward silence, Romulus looked back up at Aranth. “How will I even know when to take it off? How many birthdays will it take? Because I know it won’t be just sixteen.”

Aranth opened one eye. “Uh… Nations estimate.”

“How old am I?”

“You should be about eleven or twelve.”

“How old are you?”

Aranth opened both eyes. “Dear Tinia, I’ve no idea. Early twenties, I should think. But if’s after a battle, I feel at least fifty.”

The Roman swam to Aranth’s side of the pool. Instead of sitting beside his brother as Aranth relaxed against the wall, Romulus had to furiously paddle. He asked, panting, “Why don’t you know anymore?”

“It becomes less important as you age.” Aranth saw Romulus open his mouth to ask why, so he continued unprompted. “There’s a less noticeable difference in development."

Something in Romulus was alarmed. “Do you eventually stop developing?”

“I don’t think so.” Aranth shook his head. “The gods can always reveal something new about you, especially in a new situation. Some people think that, inside, we’re the same we were as kids.”

“Oh.” Romulus sank deeper into the water to hide his shaking. He couldn’t slap his reddening cheeks with this water because it was even hotter than his fear. “Do you think I—?”

It had finally been enough. Aranth sighed, reclining further back into the wall. “I love you, but this is a lot to talk about right now. Can I just sit for a minute and let the travel melt off of me?”

“Oh.” Romulus wrapped his arms around himself and faced forward again. “Okay.”

For a long time, the only sound was the bubbling of the hot springs, coupled with the two brothers’ breathing. Romulus was still laboring from staying afloat, but Aranth’s became the most languid of winds. Eventually, it shallowed out completely.

When this happened, Romulus finally released his bulla. His hands were concealed by the turbid mountain water. Romulus murmured, “Sometimes I feel older, too.”

Aranth’s arm surfacing from the water made Romulus jump. He was about to leap out of the way when Aranth wrapped the calm, stabilizing arm around his shoulders.

Aranth himself was surprised. When he moved his hand up to pat Romulus’ hand, Aranth was greeted by the coarse sheep’s wool instead of fluffy curls. Whatever he was going to say took flight from his mind, and Aranth’s expression turned extraordinarily wistful.

“I know.”

 

“Traveling again,” Aranth huffed, climbing into the wooden carriage behind Romulus. The clouds had not cleared, but it had to be late in the day by this point. “At least the sanctuary is only down the road. I can cut that liver and then take a nap.”

Romulus had just been put in one of his nicer tunics, but Aranth had to wear the full priest’s garb—long robe, sheepskin jacket, conical hat. Aranth had let Romulus carry the staff of augury so he felt important. It was for reading the signs of birds, but Aranth had to be prepared for all religious arts at all times. After seating himself on a cushion, Romulus looked up the long priest’s staff, his eyes following the spiraled top until he became dizzy.

“But you were happy to go to Alalia,” Romulus said while blinking himself back into reality. Once the carriage sprang into action, he stuck the rod between his legs for safe-keeping, but it was still twice his height. “You’re happy to go to Caere when Anysus wants to meet you there.”

“You mean Cisra? I don’t know why I’m surprised when Latin renames things. Everyone does.” Aranth laughed uncomfortably and patted Romulus’ shoulder. “Well, of course I’m happy to. Traveling to see your loved ones is the most fulfilling journey of all.”

His small body bouncing along, the other looked down. “Would you come see me if I went somewhere?”

“Where do you think you’re going? I mean, of course I would.” Pinching Romulus’ cheek, Aranth smiled. “You’ll get to go to Corsica soon! I was a few days late because I was instructing the builders on the changes I want done to my new palace.”

“Don’t you have to cross the big water to get there?” Romulus asked, gripping the staff until his knuckles blanched.

“You have to sail to get most anywhere. But I think you’ll love the vacation home,” Aranth promised. He gasped at a particularly rough roadbump, steadying himself with a hand on Romulus’ shoulder. Then, he continued. “Corsica has so many beaches, flowers, and palm trees.”

Romulus frowned. “I don’t like any of those things.”

“Well,” Aranth mumbled, scratching his chin, “to each his own.”

The two brothers were silent for the remainder of the short trip. It was quite the rocky, winding road to reach the western part of the plateau where the earlier humans had decided to build the temple alone. On the side of a hill, it now stood proud as Veii’s spiritual hallmark. It was divided into two structures, one a temple dedicated to Menrva for Aranth or Minerva for Romulus, and the other for all worship. The latter was mostly empty, as the Etruscans were still working on the finishing touches and planned on adding statues of major gods to its roof.

Romulus stuck his head out of the window to watch the gargantuan marble monument come into view. Across the road lay the fenced sacred grove that surrounded most Greek-style temples, glittering in all its peridot glory. “Do buildings stay this big when you become an adult?”

“Just temples,” Aranth chuckled good-naturedly. “They’re meant to be larger than life, just as their subjects of worship.”

Dropped off in front of the marble staircase, Aranth grabbed Romulus’ hand to help him jump the high stairs. They were quite impractical, Romulus thought. From there, they headed to the as yet unassigned temple, as liver reading required more gods’ input than just Minerva. On the platform next to the general temple were a well and rectangular pool, so Romulus splashed his face, just for good measure.

They had to pass through the minimalist, Tuscan-style columns to enter the sanctuary. “Your staff,” Romulus whispered fiercely, handing it to Aranth before anyone could see. His chest inflated with the responsibility of remembering, but Aranth only nodded. His chest deflated.

Under the portico, two priests began crowding around Aranth, forming a wall between Romulus and the conversation. Seeing only robe bottoms, Romulus began to feel like a plus one. As the religious leaders floated to the square altar, Romulus planted his heels on the marble floor. Looking down, the tiles were polished enough to see his own reflection.

“A fresh sheep liver from this morning is more than fine,” he heard Aranth say. “I’m just here to see how the banquet tonight will go.”

Romulus stood as if Narcissus for a few minutes as the priests prepared the altar for haruspicy. Revealed to the Etruscans by Tages, Aranth wanted to pass the art of liver reading onto his brother, but so far, he had shown no special prowess for it. But since his people had adopted the custom, Romulus paid attention to help a poor Roman if they needed an emergency reading. So far, no one had bothered asking a child since Tages.

And he regretted that it was always sheep.

“Lucius!” Upon hearing his name, the Roman looked up. Aranth was waving him over to the altar, so Romulus followed obediently, though not quite willingly. “Do you want do the chant with me?”

Romulus shrugged. “Okay.”

Taking his brother by the hand and the priest’s staff in the other, Aranth lifted his arms, and Romulus did the same. Despite not being particularly enthralled with the mysticism of haruspicy, Romulus knew what chant Aranth meant by heart. While one priest poured water over everyone’s hands, another played long, haunting melodies on the flute. Aranth and Romulus listed off the Etruscan pantheon and begged them each to reveal their wills through the liver. When an assistant was present, they got to add their own piece. Unable to control his smile, Romulus shouted, “Carry out the sacrifice according to the Law!”

At that point, the washing priest put the vase down and picked up the ceremonial knife. Romulus grinned as a cloth was removed, and the blade became naked. Aranth noticed Romulus’ smile; he smiled too. “Do you want to mark the liver for the first time?”

The main art of Etruscan haruspicy was dividing the liver by cutting shallow lines into its surface, for each deity owned its own area on the liver. A mark in that area meant that certain god was communicating. Romulus looked up and immediately realized the problem. “But I can’t—”

Before Romulus could get too embarrassed and run away, Aranth scooped him up by one arm. The only benefit to his nation strength was carrying a bunch of kids at once and longer sex. Once the priest had handed Romulus the knife, Romulus hovered over the altar. “It’s a lot of lines. I can’t them all, either.”

“I’ll help you, of course!” Aranth switched the boy to his non-dominant arm. Then, he could put his hand over Romulus’ as Romulus cut.

The first incision was a straight shot down the center. Overeager, Romulus almost cut the liver in half.

“Oh, careful!” Aranth warned, his voice kind but watery with anxiety.

It was difficult, but Romulus lightened his touch for the rest of the liver. A good soldier needed to master both cuts, as Romulus saw it. Some to kill, some to intimidate. It was also tedious work, especially with Romulus learning, and they were there for almost another half hour. If a priest raised an eyebrow, Aranth looked at Romulus and gave a chipper, “Good job! You’re doing great!”

Once it came time for the reading, Aranth handed Romulus to one of the priests so he didn’t have to keep his staff in the crook of his arm. Stepping up, lit from all sides by the sacred torches, Aranth’s face took an almost enigmatic quality. Romulus had seen this same scene at least once a moon, but now that it was his liver, it suddenly felt different.

“Oh, there is an ominous yellowing in Uni’s corner,” Aranth reported flippantly. “It looks like the Sky Father will be giving us bad weather. Well, I already knew that one!”

The duo of human priests laughed nervously. Was it alright for a god to make fun of the other gods? But Romulus just said, “Yeah, it’s been pretty cloudy.”

Aranth smirked. “Thank you, little Lauchasiu.”  With some more prodding, Aranth spoke again, this time much more grave. “There are many bumps on Voltumna and Ani’s spaces. Since that is political unity and doorways, I am afraid the fate of the party is not well. Ah… at least I can prepare for it.”

Romulus frowned. That was his problem with the Etruscan religion: they sought the future to no aim, for they believed it was set in stone. Instead of fighting it entirely, the prophecy could only be lessened. “Will you postpone the banquet, then?”

“No,” Aranth shrugged. “You’ve waited long enough, Lucius. You’re probably itching for some company.”

He really wasn’t. But he had gotten over his anger at Aranth’s late arrival, so he said nothing. Romulus kicked his way out of the priests’ arms and turned to leave.

“Dear gods!” Aranth yelped behind him. Romulus had to whip around to ensure Aranth hadn’t been hit by a weapon. It almost looked like it, as he was just standing over the altar, hands spread in the air for protection. His skin transitioned whiter than his sheepskin vest.

“What?” Romulus ran back over, tiny feet slapping the floor noisily, breaking the sanctity of the sacrifice. While his footsteps still echoed into the deathly dark of the portico, Romulus tugged on Aranth’s tunic. Aranth wouldn’t pick him up again. “What is it? Did I do it?”

“How did I miss that the first time?” Aranth mumbled. He took his hands down from the air to cover his gaping mouth. “No, no, it wasn’t your cut. Sarte’s area… is furiously red and lumpy.”

The human priests gasped and took a leap back from the alter. Romulus just scrunched up his face. “Who’s Satre?”

“I think your kind calls him Saturnus,” Aranth huffed quickly, not looking down. “Oh gods…”

“What’s wrong with that? We have a temple for him in the Forum.” Romulus kept tugging on Aranth’s robes to get his attention. “He’s just an agricultural god. The Latins told me he taught them how and gave them a Golden Age.”

“Oh, she says a lot of things.” Aranth fell on the altar on his elbows and looked down at the northwest region, desperate to prove himself wrong. But it could not be done. “That sounds Greek. We envision him to be a terrifying god. He tosses his thunderbolts from his dismal abode in the ground.”

“The Greeks are okay.” Romulus was busy thinking of the logistics of that when Aranth picked him up by the armpits. His hands were clammy.

“Yes, they are,” Aranth responded distractedly, tossing Romulus over his shoulder. “Thank you, priests. I have interpreted the whole liver, I believe.”  
  
“Sorry you did not receive the blessings we all hope for. If it is only a return celebration, then the public event cannot go too badly,” one attempted at comfort. Clapping his hands, he added, “The haruspex has carried out the Sacred Act! The Rite is legally done! The gods who rule have withdrawn from here!”

“I could have said that,” Romulus complained as Aranth dashed as politely as he could out of the temple. Before the clouds were tinted cream as sheep’s wool from the afternoon sun, but now, they were pitch black.

Sandals flopping, Aranth descended the stairs. “Well, I’m very proud of you for remembering,” he muttered, but it sounded like his mind existed somewhere altogether different. Romulus shut his trap until further notice.

The carriage was waiting, and Romulus was glad for it. The air had turned oppressive; the sacred grove had become the scared grove, its leaves shaking relentlessly. They climbed in, and it was the first time Romulus appreciated the small wooden cabin.

He pulled the curtains over the window before sitting down. Once seated, Romulus grabbed Aranth’s sheepskin vest. Looking forward, Aranth said hollowly, “What is it, buddy?”

“You explained the other ones. What does a bad omen in Saturn… Satre’s area entail?” Romulus asked without dropping his hand.

Aranth’s hand moved, and Romulus thought Aranth would pat his head again. Instead, the Etruscan strangled the lituus with both hands. He looked up at the spiral with abandonment in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

 

The prophecy foretold nothing for Romulus, but Aranth had become increasingly paranoid over the course of the evening. They arrived home later than expected, only to find the slaves had not started preparing yet. Though they had done this hundred of times, Aranth always changed a few menu items and seats, so they were afraid to begin without his opinion.

While Aranth did not directly blame Romulus’ slow liver slicing for their tardiness, Romulus did not see his older brother’s face for another hour.

The next time they communicated was Aranth asking for a favor. And thus, when guests started to pour in, it was Romulus that was sent to entertain them in the atrium. They all looked at him like he was a child—rightfully so, but it still made Romulus’ ears blush. What did they know? He could make proper, adult conversation.

“How old are you?” one of the nicer female guests ventured to ask after a long period of awkward silence.

Romulus remembered what Aranth had said in the bath. He finally had an answer. “Eleven or twelve. But I really want to go with thirteen.”

“Be careful with wanting,” she laughed in that matronly way, full in tone and already drunk. “Remember that when you’re older. I want to be thirteen, too.”

“Oh, then it is just a few more years with that bulla,” her presumed husband spoke. Their arms were linked, but in Etruria, that could mean anything.

“Yeah,” Romulus mumbled. He scratched his beardless chin as a thought willed itself into his head. “What protects you from evil spirits after sixteen, then? Are you just vulnerable? Do I get armor instead?”

The throng of adults all guffawed, some with him, some at him. Once the nice man had recovered, he cleared his throat and said, “I mean, kind of. I guess the idea is that we can protect ourselves, then. But you’re allowed to put it back on for momentous life events and rewards to protect from men’s jealousy.”

She elbowed he husband in the ribs. “You know how men are.”

Romulus blinked. “Do I?”

But he would never find out, for Aranth appeared from the hall, running like a sacrificial chicken. His hair and outfit were frumpled from anxiety. “My apologies! It should all be prepared now. We ran a little late at the Sanctuary of Menrva because I gave little Lucius his biggest haruspicy lesson yet—dividing the liver!”

Everyone in the room broke into a murmur of polite applause and saccharine _oohs_. If they appreciated it, then why did Aranth have to be so angry?

The aura of the dining hall was not up to its fullest when Romulus entered. The band was trying its hardest to revive it, but something was off. Perhaps it was the slaves hadn’t decorated properly due to lack of time. These guests were B-list and last minute, Romulus had heard the slaves whisper. But above all, Romulus thought, the palace was an integral part of Aranth and reflected his moods.

And Aranth didn’t want this to happen, either.

Exhausted from travel, the two brothers refrained from dancing. Instead, they immediately sat down for dinner. Romulus had a quick lunch before Aranth arrived home, and Aranth probably hadn’t eaten at all. The two slaves accompanying him were carrying no rations, which means they squandered them at a party somewhere, probably that vacation home in Alalia Aranth had mentioned. Romulus thought it bold to party so early, when the Greeks could still come back. He had caught wind that the Phocaeans had sought refuge in Rhegion, Italy, and that was awfully close.

The menu for tonight included a seafood medley, fished from all around the Tyrrhenian Sea. Roasted lamb was paired with strings of melted sheep’s cheese. Since it was almost the cold season, warm porridge and bread pancakes were set out, both sprinkled with raisins and nuts. Romulus added peppers to the side of his lamb.

“How much water do I have to put in my wine?” Romulus whined, which made his voice crack a few times.

Aranth raised one eyebrow. “How much water do you want to put in your wine?”

The Roman pressed his lips together and thought seriously. “I want to have fun without falling down the stairs.”

“Since we’re immortal, I’ll leave that decision up to you,” Aranth chuckled. He didn’t smile, but he did wink.

Romulus poured in a bit of water experimentally. The dark liquid was much too like the weather outside. And the taste was not much better, bitter and unhappy, going down almost solid. He tried again and again to no avail.

Eventually, Romulus shamefully reached for the honey and added as much as the wine cup would handle.

At Greek symposiums, young men would sit up instead of recline. Etruscan parties had no such strict rules. Romulus did sit up, but only because he was too short to reach the table.

The couple from the atrium had disappeared. Aranth made distracted with the politicians lying on the nearest couches. No walls separated Romulus from the conversation this time, except for the ones in his heart.

Like all Etruscan parties in the last century, the _kottabos_ game was eventually brought out. Romulus had only played a few times and done more poorly than the last. Well, he was the only child present at parties; he was playing against veterans that had practiced the art of wine-throwing for years. Joke’s on them—Romulus had all of eternity to practice, and he would be back.

“Oh, no thank you,” Aranth spoke out of the corner of Romulus’ eye. “I haven’t even finished one glass of wine. I’ve just played a few days ago, see.” The asking politician nodded and returning to his couch.

Though he expected nothing nothing less, Romulus was disappointed his hypothesis was true. Anysus would have been there, and Romulus was never gifted insight like Tages as to what those two did at parties—or after. He didn’t feel particularly old enough to know.

Romulus was close enough to tug on Aranth’s gold and lapis lazuli bracelets. When Romulus recognized them as a gift from Anysus, he stopped touching them. The Etruscan looked up. “What, do you want to play?”

He shook his head. “Why do you play kottabos? It’s Greek.”

“That it is,” Aranth agreed slowly, fearing a trick question.

The young Roman held an impassive visage. “I thought you hated Helen.”

“Dear Tinia, no!” Aranth gasped. He switched his position on the couch to have his head recline by Romulus instead, then dropped to a whisper. “Helen is a lovely woman al… most of the time. What makes you think that, Lauchasiu?”

If his head wasn’t already swimming from the wine, Aranth gave it whiplash. “Maybe because you just fought her!”

“One of her smaller, lesser important groups,” Aranth shrugged. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you really think _now_ is the best time to bring it up? I thought I explained the situation to you before I left.”

“You did, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree,” Romulus huffed. His cheeks burned, but they were in the dining hall, and the water jugs did not return until the next round of wine. “You can’t use her stuff and then kick her out of places!”

As his voice raised, Aranth hushed him in equal volume. “Well, I’ll say it again. Anysus does think ill of Helen, but her historians wrote mean things about him first. He’s very sensitive. Well, I am not excluded from that treatment, but I think it comes from a place of insecurity and wish for her to heal first.”

Romulus’ gears were malfunctioning as he tried to rectify the words _Anysus_ and _sensitive_ in the same sentence. Before he could, Aranth continued, “I like Helen, but some of her groups were overstepping their boundaries. Anysus and I were protecting our assets like the islands and Strait of Gibraltar. You want safe seas and a nice place to live, don’t you?”

“I thought the Greeks were more of a problem in South Italy, though,” Romulus said, scrunching his eyebrows. “That’s closer to me. I could have handled that.”

Aranth tilted his head slowly. “Now, do you hate Helen?” Caught in his own logic, Romulus shook his head furiously. His poor heart was beating a mile a minute. They had only seen each other a handful of times, and she was always covered in an _epiblema_ , but she was the shortest woman Romulus had seen. He hadn’t seen that many, either, but she had to be beautiful. “That’s what I thought. See, adults have complicated relationships. We argue, balance out the good and the bad.”

The Roman stared down at the cushions. He would have played with a frayed end or loose string if there was one, but new ones were imported from the East almost religiously. “You don’t argue with Anysus.”

“Was that all lost on you? Who says I don’t?” Aranth shrugged violently. Forgetting he was holding a full cup, some wine spilled out of the side and was sent soaring towards Romulus. Half landed on his tunic, but his reflexes kicked in, and the second half landed on the pristine foreign cushions.

Both brothers looked at the same time. A terrible, scarlet splotch burgeoned perniciously on Romulus’ left arm and chest, where he had turned closer to hear Aranth above the din of revelry. Aranth’s eyes flashed with recognition; Romulus was filling in the gaps about what sight he had missed earlier in the day.

An inebriated guest jeered somewhere in the distance, saying, “Hey, buddy, the game’s this way!”  
  
Now, Romulus’ face and ears both blazed as dark as the wine, and in equal fury. He jumped to his bare feet, callused from years of farmwork, and darted out of the dining hall like a fawn. Even further in the distance, he thought he heard Aranth shout, “Lucius, come here!” But Romulus was too focused on the partygoers watching him flee; despite the intent of their gaze, malicious or concerned, their combined attention created the greatest evil eye in the world for a burning young boy.

There was only one way to end his night, and that was as his day began.

Romulus was accustomed to climbing onto the roof to be alone—he really was, and he was fine with it. He could have used the courtyard like most people, shielded by the vivacity of plant growth. But it was a place intrinsic to Anysus and Aranth, almost a sacred shrine to their relationship. Since Etruscan architecture started to become inspired by the Phoenicians, they had added a gable roof. The triangular shape was steep and perilous, as he had almost fallen off when Aranth when away. However, Romulus somehow still thought it was worth it, and hung onto his belief that the isolation was reward enough like a lifeboat.

The easiest access to the roof was through Aranth’s balcony, but he might have someone in his bed when Romulus came back down. His bedroom door would be closed eventually, because it always was after a social function. The only question was how soon.

No sense in taking his chances, especially with Aranth’s fractious mood after the wayward haruspicy. Instead, Romulus slumped his shoulders and stalked to his room.

Once inside, he removed the soiled tunic. It was a good thing it had been dyed tan rather than white, for perhaps it could still be saved. Romulus felt a pang of guilt for making the slaves go through much washing, though. He just stuffed the offending item under his bed and redressed in a old, frayed tunic he used as pajamas. A remnant from his earlier years, it was much too short, falling above his knees.

He needed the comfort right now.

Romulus crawled on his knees and looked under the bed. Without light, the stain had turned into a black void. Had he put his foot in his mouth, and the gods' ordained future was truly set in stone? Or, like Aranth becoming irritated after the sanctuary, did Romulus subconsciously act out because he knew the party needed to go wrong? That did not even bring into question how much the people affected the nation's free will, and the Romans were eating Etruscan religious customs up.

Romulus didn't know. He was only a child. 

When he stood, his knees creaked like he was not, though. He took the monumental step up onto the windowsill, slapped back by the gelid night air begging him to reconsider. But Romulus trudged on, grabbing the top of the window, hoisting himself up by skinny arms that were stronger than they ever had a gods-given right to be. Practicing each time he climbed, he had memorized each weakness in the stone formation. Romulus even made new cracks to propel himself to the top by carving his nails into the soft clay mortar.

Scrambling up the roof proper now, Romulus sneered at the tiles in the dark. He couldn’t see them, but he knew too well that the Etruscans loved to decorate with rich, multicolored tiles, and even spruced up with statues of people or plants. Grabbing one such of these ornaments by the terracotta palm leaf, Romulus settled behind the sculpted tree. He kept hold of the trunk so he didn’t fall off, not that his nation strength would let him. His hair didn’t blow like it used to. Romulus wasn’t sure it ever would again.

See, not even the night could stop him now. Noticing the vibrations from the banquet shocking his feet, Romulus looked down. Now, he could better hear the traditional Etruscan music that oozed out of the bricks, down to the very last lyre. No other lyre player could sound like Aranth did, and Romulus wasn’t sure he wanted them to.

Even here, in his rooftop sanctuary, he could not escape. The cultures on the Italian peninsula were all Romulus had ever really known. Since he had yet to leave Italy, this area remained young Romulus’ world. That might change with Aranth’s new vacation home, but somehow, Romulus doubted it. This terracotta ornament was the only palm tree he wanted to see. 

In his mind, the entire world was beneath him.

**Author's Note:**

> if you're curious, i have a personal blog at https://52px.tumblr.com/ where i post more fics and my drawings. i also run an aph ancients discord server called 'the nursing home.' it can be found by visiting https://52px.tumblr.com/post/173005624798/.
> 
> if you're hankering for more anysus content, i rp him at http://qarthadasht.tumblr.com/. i also have another ao3 series with him called 'a human being can survive almost anything,' located at https://archiveofourown.org/series/907950. 
> 
> that's it, and thank you so much for reading!


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